


To kiss and talk to

by eternal_sonnet



Category: Trying Human
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Character Study, F/M, Headcanons & Theories, Implied/Referenced Character Death, POV Third Person Limited, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:40:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22401961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternal_sonnet/pseuds/eternal_sonnet
Summary: Amidst all the pain, uncertainty and war, she was alive. She had eyes that still could and often did shed tears and lips that smiled so widely that one would think that she enjoyed every breath she took, was amused by the wind and fascinated by the way the sun rose every morning. Amidst all the pain, uncertainty and the heaviness of his past which he carried within him, he was drawn to her.
Relationships: Vernon Glasner & Phillis Lennox, Vernon Glasner/Abigail (Trying Human)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2





	To kiss and talk to

**Author's Note:**

> A very short character study about Glasner and his relationship with both Abigail and Phillis from his point of view. I was inspired to write it after re-reading the part where he tells Phillis of his past. I find his character to be quite a complex one, and it was interesting to try to imagine how he thought of some of the things that happened to him and the people around him, as he seems to have a very biased and warped way of looking at things.

"Deep in Earth my love is lying

And I must weep alone."

\- Edgar Allan Poe

* * *

He filled his glass with the last of the remaining wine and sat back, despising the fact that despite all his best efforts and attempts, when all was quiet and the only light in the room was coming from the green liquid in which his love resided he couldn’t do anything to forget what he would rather not remember.

Her liveliness was the first thing he had noticed about her; the way she sometimes skipped when going from one room to another, sang to herself quietly, danced slowly to gentle melodies. Before he knew her, he often wondered whether she was even aware of what was happening around her. Afterwards, he knew that she was even more aware of the reality of their life than him or the other defeated souls who couldn’t even spare a sigh, no matter how half-hearted, let alone shed any tears for the destruction that came with war. He couldn't find meaning in any of it, nor was he able to find poetry in the things she was able to find it in. Her tears and her almost neverending compassion was the proof of this; he had seen in her what he couldn’t see in himself many times and wished, very silently but also quite strongly, that when she looked at him, she thought of the same thing for herself.

Abigail, his Abigail who was always content within the moment, who was always so sensitive; whose torn body was now rotting under the cold dirt, forever gone. 

The wine didn't seem to taste like anything but he still raised the glass to his lips. He should have seen it coming. That was the one thing that troubled him for all these years, that came back to him at night and followed him everywhere he went. She would wake up with unstoppable nosebleeds, sometimes in the middle of the night, afraid of something that didn’t seem to be there, waiting patiently just outside of his vision for him to go back to sleep or leave only for a moment to take her away once again. How foolish it was of him to think that her diary must have been filled with simple feminine delights; romantic prose, pressed flowers and poems written in cursive. How horrified she must have been during the abductions, the interactions that she so carefully laid out in her writing, with clear prose and a narrative so stoic that it was almost written by someone else.

His gaze found Phillis. How horrified she must have been. He took off his glasses, placing them on the table in front of him. There was no other explanation for why she couldn’t realise that next to him was where she would be safe; not running away from him towards the high security gates, running towards the train station, lying with a steadily growing pool of blood around her, out of breath. 

He could still feel the sting of the needle on his arm. The dark lenses on the table stared at him without blinking. He turned his head away from them, stood up and limped towards his sleeping love. In another life, somewhere deep within his memory she was helping him with his research, putting his work in order, staring off into the distance from a foggy window pane, tensing under his touch momentarily, fearing her nightly visitors, smiling at him, laughing as the wind whipped her dark locks around her face, one hand over her belly as she got ready to climb over the fence. In this one, the word ‘why’ was printed over and over again, accompanied by the frantic knocking on the glass for weeks to come and while forgiveness and acceptance had arrived at last in the form of silent peacefulness, looking at her now, her gently closed eyes and the small bubbles of green on some of the strands of her hair, he wondered if he could ever explain it to her in a way she would understand.


End file.
